Senses
by Realisation
Summary: Draco/Harry (slash, slash, wonderful slash). Harry locks himself away from everything and everyone (including himself), and Draco finds the key to open him up again.


A/N: Mwee, this is my first try at Draco/Harry. I wanted it to seem like a sudden effortless decision based on pure whimsy (Draco's part, at least) and Harry's need for someone who wouldn't treat him like he would break if handled too harshly. Feh, I don't know if I accomplished it. But even if it doesn't meet my original intentions, I'm proud of it. I think.

I am so indecisive.  
~cwv

_there will be no more feeling that i'm all alone  
i will surround myself with things that help me grow  
right before your eyes i am changing  
new life on the inside i am changing  
hoobastank - right before your eyes_

^*^*^*^

    It began as a confrontation, of course. Everything always began as a confrontation; at least, with them it did. Their relationship made its start as bitter rivalry, snarling and sniping at each other at every chance they found.

    It was a sudden thing. Draco looked up one day and suddenly Harry was there - he had always been hovering somewhere nearby (always nearby), but in one sure and solid motion he stood out more, and so he retreated further into himself. That had always been his defence mechanism: hiding. A subtle flattening of his fringe to conceal his scar, a quick duck into a doorway in avoidance of the press or that Creevey brat with his sick photo obsession - or even of Ron and Hermione, when times were particularly trying.

    He avoided Draco. He avoided the skirmishes that brought torrents of awareness with them. He avoided anything that would make him noticed among the throngs of adoring students at Hogwarts. He didn't want attention. He had enough as it was. He did not deal well when he was lavished with attention - he never had. He had not received the proper upbringing.

    Students had died. Harry felt guilty, not realising that through their sacrifices they had allowed him to liberate the rest of the Wizarding world. It wasn't enough. Harry was the hero, and he wanted to save everyone. Ninety-seven percent wasn't enough, because he was the hero, and perfection was key for the hero. Three percent from perfect was still imperfect, and there was nothing he could do about it. The past has never allowed the reclaiming of percentages, even if those percentages are lives.

    Dumbledore had stood before the students and told them of all this heroism and the casualties of the war; Draco had watched from the Slytherin table while Harry paled and fled from the Great Hall, and his retreating footsteps closely followed by the painful noise of retching were the only sounds in the hollow silence that followed the headmaster's announcement and Harry's departure. Even those sounds were silenced in the end, though, when the partitioning door between Harry and the Great Hall closed.

    Ex-Gryffindors had died - members of Harry's own House. Ex-Slytherins had died - members of the rival House of Gryffindor. Marcus Flint and Katie Bell - Flint's demise had come as a surprise to everyone, but Katie's had not. She was the definition of Gryffindor bravery - the same bravery that every Gryffindor (_Even Longbottom_, Draco admitted grudgingly) possessed, the same bravery that had gotten her killed.

    Harry knew that and hid because of it, burying himself in excuses of schoolwork and previous engagements and Quidditch practise on Tuesdays, when it was well-known that Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff practised early in the week, while the Gryffindors and Slytherins had the pitch booked during the later part of the week.

    Harry was intent upon simply _getting away_. He did not expect Draco to find him.

    Draco first ran into Harry - quite literally - at night. He was headed for the kitchens in hopes that he could convince the House Elves to make him a sandwich. Boredom was unbearable at night; food did not fill the void, but it gave him something to do after he had finished his schoolwork.

    Harry was exiting the kitchens when Draco was trying to enter, resulting in a collision of monstrous proportions and a substantial amount of milk being poured down the front of Draco's (expensive) jumper.

    "Shite," was all Harry said. It was not an apology (_of course it wasn't_), but Draco didn't expect anyone in Harry's situation could have mustered up the nerve to apologise - standing in front of his school rival in an oversized shirt, boxers, and open robes.

    Harry looked forlornly (Draco wondered dimly if that was his only expression - did he have more up his sleeve, or was _gloomy_ the only word that defined his features?) at his now-empty glass of milk, but he did not step back through the portrait hole to refill it. Draco cocked an eyebrow and brushed past him, maintaining his dignity.

    Perhaps Harry was not the only one who did not want to be a part of a confrontation.

    That first accidental encounter sparked more. Draco's mind seemed to have honed in on Harry. Was he still distraught? Was he having a nightmare? Was he tossing in his bed as Draco was in his? Was he wandering the castle halls at night? With these questions in mind, Draco was forced to step out of the comfort of his own bed and search for something he was sure he had imagined.

    He watched Harry. He looked at him and did not think pityingly to himself, _Oh, there's Harry Potter, the poor wilting flower_, because perhaps (_perhaps_) there was more to him than that.

    Their second meeting, in the library, was what convinced Draco that Harry was (_perhaps_) more than just The Hero.

    Draco could almost feel Harry's presence in the air - all the scents and colours and the thick air that seemed to follow Harry wherever he went, a reassuring presence to counter the effect of the stifling lack of oxygen that also seemed to trail along wherever Harry went (or maybe Draco forgot to breathe - _No_).

    He moved softly through the aisles in search of Harry (as if he were a novel lost among the other dusty tomes), pausing to peer surreptitiously through bookshelves. Then he saw him, moving along a particularly dusty shelf of books, a finger tapping each book as he walked past.

    He enviously watched that long finger trailing over the worn spines of the library books. It was most likely one of Harry's first times in the library without Hermione to accompany him - why he had chosen to come alone, Draco did not know. Hermione, undoubtedly, could have found any information he was in need of, quickly and without error.

    He peered through the gap between the bookshelves as Harry's finger hovered uncertainly over one tome for a moment, before deciding upon the book to the right of it and snatching it out hastily. Harry pivoted on his heel, his back now to the shelves from which he had plucked the book, whose open cover was now facing Draco.

    The title was one word, worn down so much that the embossed, silver script was barely legible: _Sleep_.

    Draco watched Harry's tongue dart out to wet his lips in anticipation as he turned to the table of contents, searching through it for some elusive material.

    "Trouble sleeping?" Draco asked, his voice as sharp and caustic as undiluted acid as he stepped around the end of his aisle and into Harry's. He balked inelegantly then, immediately regretting the scornful tone he had used because he was so accustomed to employing it (especially with Harry).

    The book in Harry's hands slammed shut, and one of those trembling hands moved to hide the title of the expansive volume. "Yes," he said softly, every vestige of the rancour that used to lie in his speech gone. He stepped around Draco and headed for the vacant desk which Madame Pince usually occupied, her red-framed glasses nearly identical to the painfully red rims of Harry's own eyes.

    Draco stood in the abandoned aisle, wishing Harry would turn around _just once_ before arriving at Madame Pince's desk, because he needed to look at those eyes again - their red rims and the spellbinding (he hated that word, it screamed _Muggle_) doleful helplessness that they conveyed. _Please_, they said. There was no request in the post script of the message, just that single supplication: _Please_.

    He had conflicting desires - both involved walking over to where Harry was waiting at Madame Pince's desk, but one ended in an embrace and the other ended with Harry having a bloody lip and a swollen cheek.

    In the end, he chose neither.

    He convinced himself it was for the best.

***

    Draco had been watching Harry for some time, but he had remained silent after the library incident. He made his way through the halls of the dungeon on the night of their third (_time's the charm_) meeting, his hand pressed over his nose and mouth to ward away the smell of mold and old water and everything dank that pervaded his senses.

    He pushed the dungeon wall to the side and stepped out into the open (being in Slytherin had its advantages, of course, just like any other House did - Draco had escape routes). He half-expected Harry to be standing in front of him. _Why the hell are you stalking me?_ he would ask, one hand on his hip, with both Hermione and Ron flanking him dutifully.

    Thankfully, Draco had a tendency to overanalyse situations, and Harry was not _laying in wait_ for him (although wouldn't that have been interesting?). His silhouette was starkly engraved into the night sky - there was a fire in his hand that backlit him and set off his unruly, thick black hair.

    Arms wrapped around himself to keep the frigid night air from boring into him (not wanting the white-cold wind to dash him to the ground in a helpless heap of bones and steel-grey eyes and too-pale silver hair), he stalked his way resolutely forward.     As he approached Harry, he squinted his eyes against the wind, and then to focus on what Harry was holding. It was not wand-fire, as Draco had first suspected, but a living fire, in his hands. He was holding it at arms length, away from the wind so it would not burn out. Then Draco saw how the light illuminated the bluish-yellow, near translucent shadows under Harry's eyes, the sickly pallour of his face. His eyes were rimmed with red, perhaps from crying but perhaps from wakefulness.

    Harry did not look surprised to see him - _Now,_ Draco thought. _Now he's going to ask why I insist on following him everywhere_ - but then he detected the small, regretful twinge in Harry's otherwise bland expression that betrayed him. _Oh, damn,_ it said. _You found me out._

    "I suppose you'll want to see this," Harry said, holding out his hands, the fire within them still merrily burning in complete disregard of the grim situation.

    Draco hesitated. Here was Harry, _offering_ him something - something personal, and important, and something that Draco desperately wanted to take - and he paused, his outstretched hand heated to a near-unbearable temperature by the flames while he delayed. Then he snatched it up and dropped it to keep from being burned, and Harry spelled the fire away before Draco could draw his wand.

    It was a photograph, Draco saw, as he held the curled, burned edges of the picture away from its centre to view its subject. Then his brow creased in confusion, because it was an image of Ron and Hermione pressing their lips to the cheeks of a red-faced, laughing Harry - probably one Colin Creepy (or Creevey, or something) had taken - it was a Wizarding picture; that was obvious because it was still moving albeit slowly because the magic was draining from it while it cooled.

    Draco looked up at Harry, who had shied away, his hands shoved into the depths of his pockets as he toed the ground.

    "They don't know what it's like," he said. "It isn't as simple as they think it is." He looked up at Draco (who knew that Harry was not really confiding in _him_, he was shoving his troubles out to the moon and the sky and the stars and Draco was just in the way because he had followed, he was a bystander) and continued.

    "I don't want to be remembered for this," he said, and his hands were out of his pockets now, clenched into fists at his side. "I don't want to be accepted to the English team because I'm Harry Potter. I don't want to be offered a position at the Ministry of Magic just because I'm Harry Potter. And..." He gestured at the photograph still clutched in Draco's hands. "I don't want to be loved just because I'm Harry Potter, either. I'm more than just the hero."

    Somewhere in Draco there was a movement, a switch of gears or a flip of a switch. Harry was more than just the hero and he knew it and Draco knew it and there was nothing he could do to make other people see so he wouldn't try; and they would keep this between them, a clandestine meeting, a secret discussion, and no one would be the wiser.

    Draco kissed him - a subtle, graceful movement that mirrored all his others. It was a brief kiss and certainly not a lover's kiss; a searching kiss that attempted to delve deep into the psyche rather than be passionate, but for the instant their mouths touched, Harry's lips were soft. Then the moment was over, and Draco pulled away.

    "What was that for?" Harry asked, rubbing his lower lip with his thumb - not trying to erase Draco from his skin, but to push that lingering touch deeper, to let that fleeting contact be absorbed so he could always recall the exact sensation of Draco's lips pressed to his. It was another of Harry's security precautions - if he was not meant to kiss Draco again, at least he would be able to remember how he tasted.

    "I thought you needed something," Draco said, "and that's all I knew how to do."

    The corners of Harry's mouth twitched up in amusement. It was almost a smile, but not quite. "What if all I needed was to clock you one?"

    "Then my attempt to heal your poor, broken spirit will have been for naught," Draco said, leaning back against the rain-wet grass, his arms behind his head and a smirk playing across his lips. Draco had always chosen smirks over smiles.

    Harry moved the burned edge of the photograph between his thumb and forefinger. The faces in the image had halted - Harry in the middle of a gasp of laughter, his glasses hopelessly askew and his green eyes shining with mirth; Ron and Hermione on either side of him, both leaning in with their lips pressed against his cheeks.

    He had shyly pulled away from the joking affection of his friends then, flushing deeply and rubbing his cheeks as he escaped the lens of the camera - had Draco not stopped flame at that moment, it would have caught the disappointed expressions on Ron and Hermione's faces when Harry ducked away from them.

    He was glad the image had halted with both Ron and Hermione laughing. He set the photograph down, hoping that his friends would not drift away in the nighttime breeze. Then he turned to look at Draco, whose hair had been upset by - what, exactly? - and sucked a breath in through his teeth: his last hiding breath. Then he inhaled the scent that was so obviously _Draco_ - freshly ironed clothes, grass and rain (but not from the post-rain smell or the grass in which they laid), and platinum hair with matching pale skin (which wasn't really a scent, now that Harry thought of it . . . _But it should be,_ he realised. _It damn well should be_).

    Draco's eyes flew open when he felt Harry's mouth pressing against his. Harry's eyes were wide as well, the green eyes boring into his; they had a soporific effect on him and he decided that if he didn't close his eyes he would surely fall asleep, and something in the Malfoy Code of Conduct said falling asleep while kissing was at the top of the list in the _Very Rude, Indeed_ category. So he began to close his eyes, and saw that Harry's were sliding slowly shut as well.

    Minutes passed and Harry still laid draped across Draco, and they were pressing against each other in a futile attempt to meld, limbs and noises and smells tangling together in an odd symbiosis. Harry knew that when he got up, Draco would smell of oak and honey and warm, golden things that would stick to him like syrup; and Draco knew that when Harry moved away he would be green with pine and silver with Mercury poison.

    Then everything stopped, and Draco's fingertips untangled themselves from Harry's charcoal hair and trailed their way down, clasping together around his waist to keep him there because Harry was like the gold and copper in dusk that quickly faded into the dim shades of purple and orange. Draco wanted him to stay copper because copper reminded him of bravery - and Harry needed courage, along with other things Draco was not sure he could bestow: kindness and the promise to never hate him. So Draco gave him security, and held him close until most of the bitter night had receded and copper and gold were returning to the sky.

    "What do you think?" Harry asked suddenly, his voice raspy from lack of sleep, and he buried his face in the folds of Draco's robes. "Everything is so strange now."

    Draco made a vague, _mm_ing sound of agreement and ran his hand through Harry's hair, making it stand on end.

    "What do you want?" Harry asked softly.

    Draco swallowed, and he gave his answer some thought. "Normalcy," he said finally. "I'd like things to be normal."

    Harry tensed. "So back to fighting, then?"

    "No," Draco said, running his hand through Harry's hair again, his fingertips stopping at his neck. "I don't think that would be normal."

    "Hmm," Harry said in soft accord. "Kiss me."

    Draco complied, feeling relief rise up from somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach to lodge itself under his breastbone, and he couldn't for the life of him imagine when he had begun to be worried or what exactly he had been worried about. But there was that warm relief hiding thankfully (and thankfully hiding) under his sternum where no one could see it; no one except Harry, who was clinging to Draco and sending bursts of all that orange-and-gold courage into the area behind his grey eyes.

    "I want silence," Draco said, and Harry thought that was a very characteristic remark.

    "I don't think I can give you that," Harry said; and his voice was torn silk, Draco thought, when silk gets snagged and the threads that hold it together pull away from one another - smooth with a few rough spots, but perfect in its imperfection.

    "Who would you tell?" Draco asked, and to him the moon seemed to be moving down out of the sky at a rapid rate while the sun moved up, but he knew (he thought) it was only his imagination.

    Harry thought about that for a moment. "Hermione," he said. "Not Ron, but definitely Hermione." There was a pause in conversation and the moon and sun halted accordingly, so perhaps there was no pause after all, or maybe Draco was focusing on reality again for just that moment.

    "I can try brief silence," Harry said.

    With that and a murmur of acquiescence, they became a quick brush in the hallway, a hushed gasp in-between classes, a staged glare, and a hidden kiss.

    Harry Potter was a flawed hero. A poor friend. Constantly nervous. Over-apologetic. Too emotional for a boy who knew he could save the world because he had done so (on numerous occasions).

    And he was perfect (of course). 


End file.
